


enough love, my little dove

by tkillamockingbird (Theboys)



Series: Rachmaninov (prelude in C sharp minor) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Pianist, M/M, No abuse from Thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/tkillamockingbird
Summary: Thor’s arms tighten to the point of pain and Loki is familiar there, and he relaxes into the hold.In which Loki is studying to be a concert pianist, and Thor is studying Loki.





	enough love, my little dove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [curds_and_wheyface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/gifts).



> I told you I would write you something (and then my Master's started kicking my ass and I had to pull a Loki and temporarily join the damned) but I'M BACK. Hopefully you enjoy--would you believe that I was inspired by one of those two-second prompt things? This is MUCH angstier than it called for.
> 
> I've left very mild spoilery notes at the bottom, I think the current tags will be sufficient without reading them, but if anyone wants to avoid potential triggers, it's there.
> 
> title taken from fourth of july, by sufjan stevens.

Loki’s forced to use the cane.

He keeps his hair down and it curtains his face, freshly washed. He’s more partial to keeping it up in a bun but he’s not up to looking anyone in the eye today.

His shin quivers uncertainly beneath him, and his hand is white knuckled on the birch finish.

He tucks his free hand into his pocket and ignores the girls gathered in the front of Hendrie Hall. They don’t know him, or either don’t notice him, and that’s definitely good enough for him. He’s a first year, and if they knew anymore about him, his cohort would probably be unkind.

His shin is close to healing, and he’s pleased, because it’s made managing the forte pedal a kind of pain he doesn’t want to repeat.

He’s only got the one other sweatshirt after the obligatory Yale one that Hel had pressed into his hands at the end of summer break, his mouth twitched in an approximation of a grin.

Loki’s only worn it once, but he figures he’ll have need of it more often once that infamous New Haven chill sets in.

His shirt is oversized anyway, hanging over leggings that fit tightly over the ace-wrap on his shin.

The cane clicks awkwardly up the stairs, lazy one-two-step as Loki’s hand shakes over the curve of wood.

He can feel the sweat dotting his forehead and his eyes dart around uncomfortably. The handle to Hendrie is slick when he opens it, and he has to feign familiarity with his surroundings.

Hel took him twice over the summer, bought and paid for with money that Hel can touch and Loki can’t. His leg was fine then, and he’d walked the route to his classes as often as he’d needed to memorize them. 

The hall is deathly silent.

Loki’s heart trips a bit in his chest, unnecessary. The hard part is over. He’s just graduated and he’s going to get his Master’s of Music. His knuckles are bloodless.

He thinks he might faint.

-

He’s not sure where to go about his leg.

The doctor he’d had at home can’t be expected to fly from Washington to Connecticut on a whim, no matter who his father is.

As it stands, he didn’t think to have Hel show him the Yale Health Care system, and now he regrets everything. He should’ve known he’d need access to it. He always has before.

Google Maps tells him it’s an 18 minute walk to the School of Medicine, and he thinks that anywhere further would be out of reach for his leg’s endurance.

His endurance is already shot, and the thing is almost basically healed. No one notices him, which is a relief, and he keeps to the edge of the crowds of people flocking in the center of campus.

He’s very thin, which often gives him the appearance of being taller than he is. He’s hopeful that he’s got one last growth spurt in him, but right now he fists his iPhone in the one hand and peers upwards. He’s passing Harkness and he just passed Bass--but he’s not sure if the little gps man is indicating a right or a left.

His fingers are sweaty and someone jostles him on his bad side.

The cane slips, as does his phone, and Loki makes a pained mewl under his breath. The urge to cry is strong, and it intensifies even as Loki attempts to staunch it.

He didn’t cry then, and he certainly won’t begin now.

He’s bending his good leg in order to reach for his phone when it abruptly appears, just beneath his nose. Loki jumps backwards, landing poorly once again, and this time he has no hope of stifling his cries.

He’s hiccuping back tears, abruptly nervous that he’s finally gone and ruined his leg, and he’ll need to adjust fourteen years of technique in one week, and the hand that settles on his forearm is both bigger than Hel’s and Father’s.

“Shit. I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” The words are muffled by the height distance and the roaring in Loki’s ears. The hand is warm.

The face is tanned, as if whomever it belongs to has been raised in the cradle of the sun. He’s got a thick beard, well kept and the color of wheat. It’s like trying to see past absolute light.

“I’m trying to get to the School of Medicine,” Loki says, and he swipes angrily at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’m going to need you to let me go if I’m to make it there any time soon,” Loki adds, sucking his lower lip in his mouth.

The hand remains, but it moves so that it’s cupping Loki underneath his elbow.

“It’s my lucky day, then,” the man says, and Loki looks up, swallowing against the stretch of his Adam’s apple. 

“I need to hand in some immunization paperwork. I’m headed there now. I’ll show you a shortcut and find whoever it is you need to talk to.” The man pauses and Loki squints. 

“If you give me my phone back,” Loki says, “I can do it myself. Like I was planning.” The words are unbidden. Loki’s not often mean to anyone outside of his family, but the man doesn’t do anything but tuck Loki’s iPhone into his jacket pocket.

“I’m going there regardless,” he says again, and drops his hand. Loki makes a small sound of distress and his cheeks burst into flame. It feels almost as awful as if he broke a finger instead of his shin.

“I’m Thor,” the man says, and Loki can taste the name in his head. Thor. 

“Loki,” he says, and he resolves to be kinder. He doesn’t know anyone here, and this isn’t the best way to start.

“I can’t walk very fast,” Loki warns, ducking his head back down to eye the glossy finish of the cane. It was expensive. Father had it made specially for him.

Thor huffs out what might be a laugh, but Loki is unsure.

“I could carry you. It’ll be faster, if you want?” Loki’s ears flush red instantly and he’s contemplating using his cane to bludgeon Thor to death.

Thor makes that sound again, and Loki realizes he’s teasing. Thor nudges him with one elbow, and Loki angles his face downward so that his hair cascades over hot ears.

-

“I graduated from the Royal Academy of Music, in London,” Loki says, twisting his fingers together under the table.

He feels out of place in Cushing, but it’s much less crowded in Gilmore and Loki thinks that Thor would stick out there like a sore thumb.

Thor whistles, and Loki flushes when someone turns around to glare at them. Her face is nasty when her eyes fall on Loki, but Thor smiles broadly and her frown dissipates. A few tendrils of hair stick to Loki’s forehead.

“You must’ve come straight here from there,” Thor says, and he’s got his laptop open, with six different windows opened simultaneously.

Thor is not a first year.

“I was nervous,” Loki admits, and he tucks his fingers inside his sleeves. Thor’s smile is small and he nudges Loki slightly, enough for him to almost topple out of his chair.

“I don’t think there’s anyone at this damn school that wasn’t nervous,” Thor says, and Loki nods before he can think better of it.

“Were you, then?” Loki doesn’t have a lot of time. He needs to head back to Hendrie so he can practice for the Concerto, and today is the first day he’s been able to walk without his cane in two months. 

Thor shrugs and scratches at his recently cut hair. He looks older. Professional. 

“I couldn’t eat for months,” Thor admits, and Loki curls his fingers together. 

“I knew I wanted it, though. That’s better than fear, I think.”

Loki tips his head up, and Thor is watching him, fingers poised over his keyboard.

Loki inches one hand into his pocket and fingers at the item within, heart rate sickly.

“I need to get back to Gilmore. I have class at 4,” he adds, and Thor nods, like he doesn’t know Loki’s schedule. He comes to pick him up outside the School of Music on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

They spend a lot of time in the library.

“I’ll drop you off,” Thor says, and Loki does not argue with the finality in his voice.

-

Thor is working primarily on his dissertation, and getting as many things published as is reasonable before he’s declared eligible for candidacy.

Loki doesn’t really understand anything about what Thor’s studying, and he feels more stupid for admitting it.

Thor’s getting his Ph.D immunobiology, and Loki only just sort of learned what that was.

“I can’t get lunch today,” Thor says helplessly, and Loki follows the taut line of his spine from where he’s cramming an issue of Cellular and Clinical Immunology into his backpack.

Loki’s head hurts a bit.

“That’s okay,” Loki says. “I’ll get it with Helene and Zhang.” 

Loki is lying. The thought of interacting with his cohort outside of the bounds of peer collaboration makes his palm sweat.

He’s not talked to anyone outside of class, save professors, other than Thor.

Thor turns to face him, eyes narrowed.

“You’ll eat, then?” Thor says, and Loki tucks his hair behind one ear. “Yes, Mother,” Loki says, and if it comes out funny, it’s not his fault.

-

When Loki wakes up from a nightmare, he’s always crying. It doesn’t matter if he can’t remember the dream, he always knows the gist of it.

He lives alone with the stipend all music students are provided, but his fingers are still slippery when he calls the third number on speed dial.

Hel will be disappointed. Loki hasn’t spoken to him in three days.

Thor answers on the third ring, voice scratchy from disuse.

“Did you just lie down?”

Thor makes an undefinable noise and Loki sniffs so loudly he’s sure Thor heard it over the phone.

“What’s wrong?” Thor’s voice is suddenly and mysteriously clear, and Loki presses down the bubble of tears that wells up.

“I dreamed I made it to Woolsey but I was naked. And all of my fingers were broken,” Loki lies, and it’s close enough to the truth to suffice.

Thor’s laugh is a honeyed, welcome thing.

“I know a guy in Plastics, sweetheart,” Thor murmurs, and Loki scoots backwards in his bed. “If you have metal screws in your hand, maybe the sound will resonate better.”

Loki laughs, and his tears are still wet on his face.

“It could be my thing,” Loki replies, and Thor’s breath is soft in his ear.

-

“Dad says you’re ignoring his calls,” Hel starts, no preamble.

Loki has two bamboo shoots holding his hair together, and Thor is cross-legged on his floor, journals spread about before him.

He’s looking up something on antimicrobial immunity, and Loki’s eyes cross at the thought. 

He can only cook the one thing, fish and chips, and he learned that in London.

Thor will eat anything, and most often does, because he played football in high school and understands the value of a calorie, or something to that effect.

“Does he need something?” Loki says sharply, and his leg spasms. He hasn’t used the cane in three months.

Thor looks up at the venom in Loki’s voice and he colors at the glance.

Hel sighs, and his voice is warm when he answers. “He said you’ve got something of his on the drive. He’d like you to email it when you get a chance.”

Hel’s voice is dismissive; he’s always hated playing messenger boy, especially when he’s got a life and career of his own.

The tilapia falls off of the counter with a strange, frozen clunk. Some of the half-thawed ice splatters his bare leg.

He should’ve worn pants, but Thor doesn’t care that he’s more comfortable in oversized hoodies and briefs. Thor doesn’t care about anything at all.

“I will,” Loki answers, a beat too long, and Thor’s holding the fish when he hangs up.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Thor says strangely, and his hands are bloodless against the dead fish, cold and removed.

-

Loki teaches undergrad music lessons for 25 an hour. He needs the money, since he can’t access any part of his trust until he’s 25, and he’s still got two months until his eighteenth birthday.

No one has asked for his age, and the only people that would care already know.

He’s midway through Zelenski’s only concerto when he remembers that he’s left his laptop at Thor’s place.

It’s the first time he’s been there, but not the first time he’s left his belongings in Thor’s care so that Thor can rush him off to class or lessons or to the city to hear a guest pianist.

The music is Romantic, and incorporates a bit of a Chopinesque flare, and it’s only extensive practice with playing under pressure that prevents Loki from missing a note.

As it is, he feels like killing himself.

The last note peels out into the air, a high sigh against the wind.

-

Loki’s heart is beating strangely, and his knuckles are white against his messenger bag.

His hair is stuck to his neck carelessly, and Thor taps out a beat on the steering wheel of his Mercedes. Thor comes from money. He has numerous scholarships, but his father does something in pharmaceuticals.

Thor seems reasonably fond of his family, but doesn’t often feel the need to mention them.

Loki follows the beat absently. It’s Mendelssohn, he realizes, and Loki grips his seatbelt with both hands.

“That’s Mendelssohn’s sonata,” Loki says, and his neck is scarlet.

Thor turns to him as he makes a right, brow raised.

“It is.” 

Loki’s breath is heavy in the silence. 

“You play it in Hendrie,” Thor adds, coming to a stop outside of his townhouse. “It’s my favorite.”

Loki laughs wetly. His favorite.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Thor smiles, and it’s lukewarm at best. “I only know like, three composers. And that's only because they’re the only ones you’ve bothered to tell me about.”

Loki climbs out carefully, taking Thor’s arm as they climb the steps to his front door. Thor carries 90% of his weight, and Loki doesn’t think to protest.

His laptop is closed and the drive is still sticking out of it. It’s at the mantle near the door, waiting for Loki to pack it up, and Loki’s sob twists out of his mouth faster than he can reel it in.

Thor envelops him so quickly that Loki’s cry is subsequently muffled, and Loki just  _ knows. _

“How old are you, sweetheart?” Thor says, in that special way he talks to Loki after midnight, when his voice is warped of sound.

“S-seventeen,” Loki whispers, doesn’t see any point in hiding it when Thor's already aware.

Thor’s arms tighten to the point of pain and Loki is familiar there, and he relaxes into the hold. His hiccups stutter out against Thor’s sternum, his head tucked underneath Thor’s chin.

“Don’t ask me not to,” Thor says, and Loki closes his eyes, lashes clumped thickly against his face.

-

Thor takes the drive.

Loki knows what he saw on it, he left the window up in the corner, just enough visible to be concerning. 

He’d been in a hurry. The email was sent.

When he wakes, Thor’s bed is empty, and Loki is swimming in an old football jersey. His pants and underwear are somewhere on Thor’s floor, and he limps only slightly into the kitchen, rubbing his eye with his fist.

He turns into the kitchen and stutters to a halt at the chaos before him.

The kitchen floor is covered in shattered glass, cutlery and pans strewn about the wood. It’ll take ages to clean.

Thor’s wearing what he went to bed in, basketball shorts and no shirt, and he’s downing Glenlivet straight from the bottle.

Loki stumbles backwards.

Thor looks up at the sound, and his mouth twists. 

“Don’t come closer, Loki. It’ll fuck up your feet.”

Loki’s hair is mussed against the side of his head, and Thor smiles at him with something like fondness.

“I don’t want you to be mad,” Loki says, fists balled in the hem of his shirt. His fingers are stiff.

“Mad?” Thor says faintly, and Loki nods until his neck is sore.

“I’ve transcended  _ mad, _ ” Thor says, and then it’s him that’s crossing the river of glass to stand in front of Loki, taller and broader than he’s ever seemed before.

Thor is twenty-three and Loki is too young.

“He took  _ pictures  _ of you like that,” Thor hisses, and Loki closes his eyes, sways in place.

“Did he always beat you first? For the aesthetic?” Thor says, and Loki wraps both arms around his middle.

“Please, Thor,” he begs, unable to face it baldly.

Thor’s arms are a surprise, but Loki grabs ahold of him again for the second time this evening.

“I’ll kill him. I will. I can find him. Even if you won’t tell me, sweetheart. I won’t be able to--to fucking  _ sleep-- _ ”

Loki chest relaxes, and he’s aware of the splay of his wrists against Thor’s upper back.

Thor moves backwards, dragging his palms down until they frame Loki’s waist entirely. He can span them with both hands, Loki thinks dizzily, and Thor’s fingers tighten.

“I’ve wanted you from the minute you were first gonna beat me with your cane,” Thor says, and Loki blinks, mouth startled.

“Nobody’s ever--” Loki begins, and Thor’s hand rises to fist into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Good,” Thor hisses, borderline violent, and Loki shivers in sense memory.

-

It’s not until Loki is facedown on Thor’s bed, shirt rucked underneath his armpits, the smooth pale of his ass exposed to Thor’s hands, that he says it.

Thor’s pressing slick-warm lube up his hole, two fingers deep, squeezing and stretching until Loki gasps for breath, eyes rolled back in his head.

“The first you ever felt in here?” Thor says, and he keeps one palm pressed to the small of Loki’s back, as if Loki would leave, even if he could.

“Yes, Daddy,” Loki whispers, and normally it would’ve been low enough to go unnoticed, but he’s never been fucked, never been fingered, never been touched unless it was to break, and the word comes out high and plaintive in the relative silence of Thor’s master bedroom.

Thor doesn’t miss a beat. His hands shiver, fingers pressing against the spongy place deep inside Loki’s ass, and Thor makes a sound like an animal.

It reminds him of a Rachmaninov piece, overwrought and violent. 

“Baby,” he says, helpless, and he bullies Loki’s legs wide while pulling his asscheeks apart. Loki’s mouth hangs wide open on the edge of Thor’s pillow, and he struggles to press himself upwards.

“Stay down, baby,” Thor says, and he dips his thumbs into Loki’s crease, blunt edges teasing at his rim.

Loki humps back, mewls caught in his throat. He’s dizzy.

“You want Daddy in here?” Thor asks, hot and heavy, and Loki nods, hair plastered to his cheek, in his mouth.

“Right there,” Loki agrees, and he shivers when he feels the fat spread of the crown of Thor’s dick and it can’t hurt any worse--

It pops in with a nasty, squelching sound and they both groan simultaneously, hot and sticky.

Thor moves his hands to Loki’s hips, bruising them further, and drags him backwards, sucking in miles of dick with a rapidity that should be improbable.

Loki widens his legs as far as he can and arches upwards, so that Thor’s hand comes down with a broad smack against his ass.

Loki whines, high and unexpected, and Thor does it again with every inexorable shove forward.

Thor palm is like a brand, and Loki presses into every blow, his body trembling with adrenaline.

It hurts worse than anything ever has before, Thor’s thick and long, and then he’s pressing against that hot place inside.

Thor bounces him like a rag doll, hands keeping his ass wide open so he can watch the swell of his dick inside Loki’s hole. Loki can feel the slick collection of lube at every drag backwards, a sticky ring around Thor’s dick.

Thor punches out the nastiest moans, one fist gathering Loki’s long hair into a knot at the top of his head.

“Are you gonna let me keep this?” Thor says, breathless, balls slapping against the soft inner skin of Loki’s thighs.

Loki quivers, and he’s crying, big, ugly, tears.

“Daddy,” he says stupidly, and it feels like love in his mouth, too big to contain. “Only you,” he adds, and Thor plasters his chest to Loki’s spine and licks a line up his cheek, collecting saline.

He turns it into a kiss, open mouthed against Loki’s bruised lips, and Loki makes a strange sound.

It’s his first kiss.

“It was already mine,” Thor says, and Thor snakes his hand underneath Loki’s concave belly to brush against Loki’s erection.

Loki’s eyes fly open at the contact and he spills messily, like a child, even as Thor rubs him through it.

Thor’s hand is covered in come when he removes it, and he presses it to Loki’s mouth. Loki licks it clean, oddly hungry for something he’s never had. He’s thorough, as in all things, and when Thor comes, it’s so thick that Loki feels it leak down his thighs, wet on his balls.

“Please, please,” Loki begs, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

-

He makes it to Woolsey with the Philharmonic.

He plays Rachmaninov- Prelude in C Sharp Minor, and it’s Thor that mouths  _ Encore  _ in his direction as the symphony fades to a close.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Loki is as reasonably fucked up as abuse such as this would produce, and therefore, his decisions are probably dub-con at best. If you'd like to scream at me personally, visit [me.](http://brosamigos.tumblr.com/)


End file.
